VII.

The very unexpected intelligence, which Prince Augustus
has most delicately communicated to me, of poor Lord
Hervey’s decease, has quite bouleversee
my already shattered frame.

I would not allow your friendly mind to learn an event
so interesting to me from any other hand than that
of your affectionate and devoted friend,

BRISTOL.

VIII.

MY EVER DEAREST LADY HAMILTON,

I should certainly have made this Sunday an holy day
to me, and have taken a Sabbath day’s journey
to Caserta, had not poor Mr. Lovel been confined to
his bed above three days with a fever.

To-day, it is departed; to-morrow, Dr. Nudi has secured
us from its resurrection; and, after to-morrow, I
hope, virtue will be its own reward, and that my friendship
for Lovel will be recompensed with the enjoyment.

This moment I receive your billet-doux, and
very dulcet it is!

All public and private accounts agree, in the immediate
prospect of a general peace. It will make a delicious
foreground in the picture of the new year; many of
which, I wish, from the top, bottom, and centre of
my heart, to the incomparable Emma—­quella
senza paragona!

IX.

EVER DEAREST EMMA,

I went down to your Opera box two minutes after you
left it; and should have seen you on the morning of
your departure—­but was detained in the
arms of Murphy, as Lady Eden expressed
it, and was too late.

You say nothing of the adorable Queen; I hope, she
has not forgot me: but, as Shakespeare says,
“Who doats, must doubt;” and I verily deem
her the very best edition of a woman I ever saw—­I
mean; of such as are not in folio, and are
to be had in sheets.

I will come on Friday or Saturday; but our British
colony are so numerous, that my duties obstruct my
pleasures.

Ever, and invariably, dearest, dear Emma, most affectionately,
your

B.

You see, I am but the second letter of your alphabet,
though you are the first of mine.

X.

Milan, 24th November 1798.

I know not, Dearest Emma, whether friend Sir William
has been able to obtain my passport, or not; but this
I know—­that, if they have refused it, they
are damned fools for their pains: for, never was
a Malta orange better worth squeezing or sucking;
and if they leave me to die, without a tombstone over
me, to tell the contents—­“tant
pis pour eux!”